“I regret ever fucking you!”
I stand there with a smile on my face, which is slightly masking the mania that has been induced by the dadaist inflections of this situation.
“Yeah, I regret fucking you, too,” I replied with what was obviously too much calm, as the person on the other end of the conversation started bubbling over with a soapy intent bent on rage and an attempt at inflicting some sort of sense of shame or guilt in my otherwise impenetrable heart.
But shame isn’t really what I’m feeling. Nor is it regret, really, as I sit back and relax while witnessing this incredibly emotionally indulgent scene unfold in my lap. I can’t help but laugh. Hurt me, why don’t you? Or try at the very least, because I can see that, at the end of the day, the only person walking away from this conversation with wounds is you, and you’re only making it worse by screaming bloody, naked in the town square, screaming witch, crying wolf, calling me a bitch so everyone can see. But there seems to be a failure in the calculation for this attempted manipulation, because someone seems to have forgotten that nobody cares. Nobody cares. Not even me. You, honey, are the only one who cares.
So I sit on my throne of cynicism with my crown of ennui, and I am letting you regret fucking me. I am letting you live through the moments of my body in yours, and I delight in the cringe on your face while you lie in your bed next to your lover and recount your sins silently in your mind. I own no piece of you, but it’s clear that you would like me to. Own you.
Which is why I’m laughing, because who would want to own you in the first place? Please take your victim complex and sell it to some other poor sucker. You dumb white bitch.